Disclaimer: If I was Xavier I would use my mighty telepathic powers to make everyone in the world believe that I was the real creator and owner of X-men. Sadly, I'm not, and so have to write this disclaimer here saying that I neither own, nor created X-men in any way, I'm just borrowing the idea and making my own story for fun.
Thanks to Amicia for proof reading and changing this story, the lack of spelling/grammar errors are due to a combined effort of my spell checker and her. This ones for you, Ami!
Karma.
By Yma
Imagine you're in a room full of people, each and every one of them screaming in your ear. Some of them wail in grief, others laugh in joy. A few sing songs of love, and some whimper in fear. Howls of anger, angst-ridden rants, nervous ramblings, jealous murmurings, bored drones, tortured wails, vicious recriminations, all of it mixes and throbs in your ears, pounding in them ceaselessly, day after day after day. Imagine all this and make it ten times worse, then you have an inkling of what it's like to be Charles Francis Xavier.
From a young age he was forced to discover ways of remaining sane, ways of quieting the eternal screams, ways of controlling his powerful telepathy. The first, and primary, were telepathic barriers, mind tricks, foam that muffled and quieted the screaming to a background murmur, and could even stop it permanently if enough concentration was applied. Yet this was like constantly walking on tiptoes, or constantly having a bag on one's head. Possible, but unpleasant, irksome.
The second way, or rather ways, was to keep oneself occupied, either in body or mind.
Charles had done both in his time, as a secret array of trophies for Track and Boxing from his school days attested. However, the loss of his legs had put an end to most physical pursuits, forcing him to depend totally on his mind for distraction.
This was probably why he had gotten as far as he had. He was, of course, genuinely intelligent, but the need to exercise this intelligence, and shut out the constant telepathic noise by keeping it occupied on maths, science, psychology and any other subject that looked remotely interesting, sharpened his mind to genius level.
Then there was the third way, the final way, the way of meditation. Meditation, the one way he could relax, where he could ignore the voices and sail the gentle seas of his own consciousness, the one way he could just 'be'.
So it was that, at 1 in the morning, without the knowledge of anyone else, Professor Xavier floated on his back in the mansion's swimming pool.
The water lapped softly around him, his ears were beneath the water, muffling all sound. Everyone else was sleeping peacefully, their minds at rest, he could barely sense them. Above him the stars, at once so close and yet so far away, glinted in the dark sky. In the water, his body seemed weightless, it was as if he could move again. He had some independence here, paddling about, forgetting his broken legs, swimming through the cold water. Sometimes he would dive down, touch the bottom, see how long he could stay there, holding his breath until flashes appeared before his eyes. A test, an exercise in independence, a way, perhaps, of regaining the freedom he had in his youth, of proving that he was competent, with or without legs.
There were times, he contemplated, that he felt a little jealous of the others, watching them dive and duck and run, watching them practice in the danger room, or combat the many enemies that assailed them. He wished he could still do that.
But he had his mind, his telepathy, for better or for worse, power was what you made of it, be it gift or curse. Charles had learnt, through his own experiences and through the experiences of others, thatseeing it as the former was far, far more advantageous for all concerned.
Suddenly something broke his meditative reverie, nipped at the corners of his restive mind. Someone, or some people, were awake. He telepathically reached out, expecting to hear the thoughts of Logan on patrol, or Kurt, out to pillage the fridge. Instead he found the thoughts of four boys.
One dull green, soft but nervous waves registering in Xavier's consciousness, another was red-brown, its waves sharper, a little more chaotic, but more controlled. The third was almost a line of dark, dull, blue, calm thoughts so dull they barely registered, but were there nonetheless. Finally, the fourth had silvery-blue waves, fast and sharp, jagged as icicles, playful as sprites. He recognized these auras, they were the Brotherhood.
He shifted in the water and swam to the edge of the pool. Reaching its edge, he watched over the raised lip of tiles.
He could see them now, though they had not seen him. Pietro was whizzing round, deactivating machinery with lightning speed. Todd slimed the cameras, stopping the detection systems from kicking in properly, and those defenses that were left were pounded or shattered by Fred and Lance. All in all, they were working remarkably well as a team, for once. Xavier had to give them credit for that. Now they moved towards the back of the Institute, right past the pool, still not noticing the Professor.
They came to the small back door, the one leading into the kitchen, the one which would only open to a key code.
Pietro hastily tapped a code in. Nothing happened.
"Damn it Lance!" he growled. "The code isn't working!'"
"But it's the right one," objected the earth mutant hotly. "I remember, they all used it whilst I was here, to sneak past Logan, I used it myself! We should be in by now."
"Then why aren't we?"
Charles smiled; it was time to make his presence known.
"Because I thought something like this might occur," he said, his voice startling them out of their skins. Todd actually jumped five feet!
"I changed the codes as soon as you left, Lance," Xavier continued, his tone conversational, acting as if everything was completely normal.
"What'cha doin' here?" stuttered Todd.
"Swimming," replied the Professor smoothly. "It is, after all, my home."
The Brotherhood seemed at a loss with this, they stood there mute and stunned. This wasn't how it was meant to be, this wasn't part of their plan.
Taking advantage of their inaction, Xavier hauled himself out of the pool, and dragged himself over to where his chair was. For the first time the Brotherhood noticed the surprisingly large muscles in Xavier's arms, strengthened through excess use.
When he was comfortably settled, Xavier began to towel himself down. The Brotherhood remained silent, this wasn't how it was meant to be. Xavier wasn't acting scared or angry or anything; they might as well have been close friends popping round for tea and scones.
Pietro was the first to regain his senses.
"What're you going to do about it?" he demanded, his speech fast and sharp.
Xavier shrugged. "Nothing. It's a free world, you can cause no more harm to the mansion, and have done nothing to me. I do not attack without provocation."
]"But… we're your enemies, yo," gasped Todd, totally put out.
"Are we?" enquired Charles politely. "How nice for you."
Pietro snarled and rushed forward, coming to stand before Xavier. "Don't get cute with us," he snapped, jabbing a finger into the Professor's bare chest. "You know how it is, you know who we are."
"I know," replied Xavier smoothly, "that you are a group of bitter, used, and confused teenagers, barely more than children. That you are desperate enough to blindly grab onto the first life-line you see, that you are distrustful of everyone and everything because of the actions of a few unpleasant individuals. I know that you are angry and will take that anger out on the world in the misguided hope that it will somehow make things better, when it will only make things worse. I know that you could put an end to all this, you could improve your life and the lives of everyone around you if only you could look beyond your pride and anger. This I know, and that's why I have no quarrel with the Brotherhood."
Pietro's pale skin was now beetroot red, his eyes blazed, he was literally quaking in his boots. He moved still closer to the Professor, and leaned forward to whisper in his ear.
"What about my dad, old man?" he hissed, keeping his voice low so that the others could not hear. "Is he a bitter and angry child?"
"Yes, in a way he is," said Xavier in equally soft tones, "but he made his mind up about his path a long time ago, and has travelled a long way down it since. He has done things that he will regret until the end of his days. You, on the other hand, have done nothing, and that is why I do not consider you, or any of the Brotherhood, an enemy. I do not hold the son responsible for the sins of his father." Quicksilver jumped back as if he had been slapped. Xavier's words had pierced deep, and the look of rage on the speedster's face remained. Only now it was tinted by surprise, and a hint of doubt.
Then he recovered his composure, and laughed as if an amusing thought had occurred to him.
"I get it," he smirked. "You're just trying to get us away, aren't you? You're helpless, you old cripple. You just sit there with pretty speeches and a couple of mind tricks, but without the others, without your pet Wolverine, you're nothing. Look at him, guys! An ancient, bald cripple, stuck in a wheeled piece of trash, he isn't even wearing a fancy suit! He's helpless, at our mercy; I say we show him just how weak we really are!"
"I don't know Pietro…" said Lance, uncertainty clouding his thoughts. "He is the boss of the X-Geeks and all."
"Oooh, what's the matter, Lance, scared of hurting your leader?" Pietro's voice was as sharp as knives, it bit though the earth-shaker, and Charles knew that whatever hope he had of avoiding this confrontation was lost.
Lance would attack, if only to prove that he was a member of the Brotherhood, to prove that he was 'over' the X-men. Todd would attack just because the others said so. He was a hanger-on, sticking with the Brotherhood for safety, and because of a perverse wish to return some of the pain that the world had caused him. Often those insecure or bullied seek to bully others to make themselves feel better.
Pietro would attack to prove himself, both to the Brotherhood, and to his father. Deep in his heart he knew that Magneto didn't give a damn about him, deep in his heart he knew he was being used, but he denied it to himself. Supposed that, if he worked hard enough, he could gain the love and respect he so yearned from his father.
That just left Freddy, the only one of the Brotherhood who was undecided. Usually the boy was quick to anger, almost brutal, but he rarely hurt without a degree of provocation. He disliked Xavier, sure, but he didn't hate him. After all, according to Freddy, he was a weakling, a cripple, and you didn't go round beating up cripples. After all, what kind of rep was that? I'm the indomitable Blob! I can beat up bald guys in wheelchairs!
Freddy would never know it, but the pity he broadcast at that moment was worse than any injury the Brotherhood could inflict upon Professor Xavier. He hated pity, it cut through him more than any other emotion could, and he felt enough of it too. Perhaps had it not been for that Xavier might have done something different then, perhaps he would have called Logan or Storm to his aid, as it was he decided it was about time he did something for himself.
He made no move to defend himself when the Brotherhood attacked; he was determined not to be the aggressor in this situation. Lance sent an earthquake in his direction, the tremors and shakes destabilizing the ground to such an extent that it knocked his wheelchair over. Xavier tumbled out; he put out a hand to stop his fall, a foolish action, it cost him a sprained wrist. Toad was next to act, he sent his sticky tongue flying out, snagging the chair, and sending it skidding away from Charles' prone form.
"Come on, Freddy!" crowed Quicksilver. "Don't you want to help us pound the old fart?"
"Nah," murmured the Blob. "He… I don't wanna pound wimps. Not… not like him."
Pietro shrugged. "Suit yourself,' he replied, "more fun for me!'"
With this he shot forward, coming to a stop before the fallen Professor. He slapped him twice, in quick succession, on both sides of his face.
When his hand came away Xavier had a broken lip and a black eye.
Carefully, the Professor reached up and wiped the blood from his mouth, whilst keeping his eyes fixed on a now-smirking Pietro. Nevertheless, there was something in his gaze that made the speedster a little nervous.
"Now," Xavier said softly, "it's my turn."
Todd was first, Xavier reaching into his eyes and sending an image from the Toad's deepest nightmares, a horrible black-furred monster with glowing red eyes, enormous teeth, and blood-stained maws. Todd screamed, a patch of wetness quickly appearing on his pants, and then he ran with a speed that shocked even Pietro.
Then came Lance, as Xavier telepathically heightened his pain senses, and aggravated the headache he got through using his powers, so that what had once been a dull pounding pain now became blazing, exquisite agony. The boy gave one anguished cry before falling to the ground and curling up into the foetal position, clutching his head and moaning. Finally there was Pietro, who made not a sound as Xavier slammed into his brain, tweaked the correct thoughts, and was finished with him. The speedster said nothing as he slumped to the ground, unconscious.
This entire system of events took no more than two seconds to occur.
After a few moments more had passed, Freddy dared to open his eyes and move his hands away from their protective huddle around his head.
Xavier seemed to be paying no attention to him; instead he was occupied in dragging himself across the ground, moving slowly, painfully, towards the fallen chair.
"Wh-what...?" gasped Freddy.
Xavier smiled, despite the ache from his face and wrist; he sensed Blob's confusion and fear.
"Don't worry," he soothed. "You've done nothing to me, and I'll do nothing to you."
"But the guys-"
"Will be fine. Todd is probably back at the house by now, Lance's headache has already ended, he's just unconscious and Pietro… Pietro needs to apologise to me, but he will live."
With this Xavier continued to make his crawling way towards his overturned chair. Freddy stood there and fiddled for a bit, unsure of what to do next. Then he came to a decision. He moved up towards Xavier and, as carefully as he could, picked him up and carried him to his chair.
"Thank you, Frederick," Xavier said when he was once again settled in his wheelchair. "You know… there may still be a place for you on the X-men…"
"Nah," replied Blob quickly. "I mean, thanks and all, but it's not for me, your place. Besides, I've got these to look after." He jerked a thumb in roughly the direction of the unconscious Brotherhood boys.
Charles managed a smile, despite his broken lip. Yes, that was how Fred thought of himself, the house-maker, the leader. Not the outspoken, mission-setting, bossy leadership that Lance and Pietro fought over. Freddy's leadership was the one that would stay in the background, quietly helping out, taking care that people were warm enough or had enough food, making sure that none of his buddies got hurt (unless he was doing the hurting) and generally keeping the household together. Most people would never see it, of course, but it was there, if you looked hard enough.
"Very well," said Xavier. "I will see you soon, Fred. Look after yourself, and Pietro."
Blob blinked at this, but said nothing. He nodded once and picked up the two unconscious Brotherhood boys, before making his slow, ambling way home.
Xavier rubbed his temples, he was going to regret this tomorrow morning. But he had done what was necessary. Sometimes one had to be cruel to be kind, he had to remind himself of that.
He shivered in the night air, time to go in. He winced as he pushed the wheels of his chair, the wound to his wrist stung nastily, he would ask McCoy to attend it tomorrow. Now, however, he would try to get some much-needed sleep and prepare for tomorrow's trials.
About two hours had passed when Pietro awoke. He was in the Brotherhood house, nearby Lance was sitting on a couch, drinking water and holding his head. Todd was also there, sitting huddled up in a corner the lamp.
Freddy moved between them, comforting, checking they were okay, and filling up glasses of water. He noticed the speed-demon was awake and ambled towards him.
"You OK?" he asked. "What happened?"
"I… I…" Pietro paused, unsure. "I don't want to talk about it," he finished lamely.
"Well if you're feeling better you could give me a hand, Lance is as grumpy as anything, and Todd's still scared stiff. Won't go into the shadows because of the 'monster'."
"Sure," replied Pietro, eager to do anything that would get his mind off Xavier.
Suddenly his face went pale, his eyes widened, and a gasp escaped his thin lips.
"Something wrong?" asked Freddy.
"Nonononononoohgodno!"
"What, Pietro, what is it?"
"NO! It can't be! Itcan'tbeOhGodNO!"
"Pietro, Speedy! What's wrong!"
"OHGODICAN'TFEELMYLEGS!!!!ICAN'TFEELMYLEGS!"
"Huh?"
"I CAN'T FEEL MY LEGS!"
The speedster's anguished thoughts sped across Bayville, and Xavier winced when he caught wind of them. He sighed and turned over. He knew this would happen, knew it was the price… but still…
One of the problems about being a telepath was that whatever you did came back to bite you. If you did something bad, if you hurt someone, then you would feel their pain too. If you made someone happy you would feel their joy, and so forth. This was one of the reasons Xavier strove to make life better for people, one of the reasons he had turned into the compassionate man people knew and loved. It was also one of the things that, secretly, made him perhaps one of the most tortured souls in the Institute.
He began to have second thoughts over his actions earlier. Then he shook himself. No, he couldn't think that way, sometimes one must be cruel to be kind. Sometimes one must just bear the pain, no matter how much it hurts.
He sighed, nevertheless, he wouldn't be getting any easy sleep tonight, not with Pietro's pain washing though his brain. He could sympathise fully, he remembered the terrible day when he had been told he would never walk again… but he had survived, he had adjusted, and in some ways he had almost thrived, turning disability into ability.
Pietro would manage and learn too, Charles was certain about that.
In the meantime, though, he needed sleep, and that wasn't going to come easily. Meditation was impossible, physical exercise out of the question, concentrating on putting up mental barriers would only keep him awake. That left mental exercise, but Charles was in no mood for figuring any scientific problems out. This left him with only one recourse, the old exercises he had performed when he was a child, before he had fully learnt to control his power. At a time in a life when he had lain alone in the darkness with the voices of the world in his head, screaming at him, and persuading him that he would surely go mad.
This technique had been one of the few things that had kept him sane.
"Row, row, row your boat,
Gently down the stream,
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily…"
His lips moved silently to the tune of the song, repeating it over and over in his head, allowing it to block out the noise around him. He sang softly to the darkness.
"Life is but a dream!
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily
Life is but a dream!
Row, row, row your boat,
Gently down the stream..."
"Will you pass the bacon, Jean?"
"Humm, where's the waffles?"
"Hey, we've run out of milk!"
"Is this a new brand or something, it tastes different?"
"Hey, leave some for me, Kurt!"
"Are there any more eggs?"
"Good morning, everyone," said Charles as he wheeled in.
The other Institute residents started to return the greeting, but fell silent when they saw him, saw his black eye, broken lip, and slightly swollen wrist.
"What the hell happened!" barked Logan, rising out of his chair and unsheathing his claws with a 'shinkt', the others had rarely seen him so enraged.
"I had a little altercation with the Brotherhood last night," explained the Professor coolly. "Nothing you need be concerned about. Will you please pass me the toast?"
"Chuck, you shoulda called me, I would have beaten them to a bloody pulp. As it is, I'll go right over there now and-"
"That will not be necessary, Logan," interrupted Xavier, putting up a halting hand.
"Course it's necessary," growled Wolverine. "Can't let 'em go round beating up-"
"Logan, I am the most powerful telepath on the planet," said Xavier, his voice unusually harsh. "I am quite capable of taking care of myself and managing my own affairs, thank you!"
The silence which followed this outburst was long and heavy, Logan looked positively stunned.
"I… I'm sorry," Xavier said at last, sighing and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I didn't get much sleep last night, but please, trust me, I have already attended to the matter. I shall go and see my injuries attended after breakfast. Very well?"
"Sure, Chuck," replied Logan, his voice low and careful.
He sheathed his claws and went back to his food, eating with a single-mindedness which was reminiscent of Kurt on a bad day.
Slowly the conversations resumed around the table, and things returned to normal (or at least as normal as they ever got round here).
Xavier had his usual breakfast and read the paper, then retired to his office; he would see Hank later. He sent a brief telepathic message to Logan.
"If you see the Brotherhood on mansion grounds, guide them into my office. I am expecting them."
He sensed some surprise and doubt from the burly man, but also agreement. Xavier went back to his work, trying to block out the hectic thoughts that were emanating from the Brotherhood household.
Charles remained in the study all day, he took a few calls, entertained Hank for long enough to bandage his wrist, checked in with Logan so often, but that was all. He saw no one.
Needless to say, everyone was quite concerned.
Their concern was bittersweet to Xavier. On the one hand it showed that they cared for him, showed their love and passion for him. On the other hand, however, it also showed their pity, their fear, as if he could not look after himself. He understood their emotions, of course, he bore them no ill will for them really, but it hurt nonetheless. It always hurt.
It was 10 PM before they came.
Charles felt their presence, of course, he cleaned up his papers, put on the electric kettle to make some tea, and made sure the chair facing his desk was the right height off the ground, little, nervous tasks that kept him occupied whilst Logan did his duty.
There was a brisk knock on the door to his office.
"Come in," he called.
Logan entered, a surly look on his rough features, behind him Blob hung back nervously. Cradled in his massive arms was Pietro, looking equally anxious. Both Todd and Lance had refused to go with them.
"Here they are, Chuck," grunted Logan. "Sure you don't want me to take care of them?"
Both the boys turned even paler at this, but Xavier shook his head. "No thank you, Logan, that will not be necessary. Mr. Dukes, would you please place Mr. Maximoff in the chair opposite me?"
Still looking nervous, Blob managed to squeeze his way though the doorway, and trotted into Xavier's study. He moved carefully, terrified of breaking something or putting his foot in the wrong place, a deed all too easily done for the clumsy and slightly slow Freddy. When he reached the indicated chair he placed the unresisting Pietro on the seat with the tenderness of a mother leaving her child.
"Thank you, Mr. Dukes, Logan, you may leave now. This is between me and Mr. Maximoff."
Logan looked dubious, as did Blob.
"It's OK, Freddy," murmured Pietro. "I can take care of this."
Freddy gave a slow nod and hastily exited the room. Xavier glared at Logan, the hairy man sighed and also left, watching Blob's back like a hawk.
Xavier sat silently then, looking at the immobile speedster over steeped fingers. Pietro could not help but focus in on his bandaged wrist, black eye, and swollen lip.
Eventually the silence became unbearable.
"OK," Pietro snapped. "All right, you've had your fun. I'm sorry, OK, I'm sorry."
"Fun?"
"Yeah, or whatever satisfaction you got out of this. Look, if you want me to beg…"
"No, Pietro, I don't want that. If you want me to help, you need only ask."
The speedster closed his eyes, and swallowed hard, as if preparing himself for some mighty task.
"I… I'd want you to undo… undo whatever you did to me. I'm sorry for… for what I did to you, but I want to walk again, I want my legs back… please."
Charles said nothing; he turned his chair and wheeled over to the window, staring out of it, appearing oblivious to Pietro.
The boy fiddled in his seat, trying to quell the feelings of frustration, rage and fear that were brewing and building within him.
"What would you do if I said no?" asked Xavier at last.
Pietro's already super-fast heart hammered at light-speed in his chest, his breath caught in his throat.
Surely he'd never… he wouldn't… would he?
"I… I don't know," he stuttered at last. "I… I suppose I'd have to learn to cope…"
A shadow of a smile crossed Charles's face. "Yes,' he murmured. "I believe you would, you get that off your father, along with his arrogance. Yes, you would learn to cope, maybe even thrive. Your upper body still works, you're still extremely fast, and in a wheelchair on a flat surface, you would find yourself even faster. Exercise may be used to strengthen your upper body, making you perhaps stronger than ever before. Most other physical difficulties can be worked around via restructuring of your home, a chair lift, lower surfaces, ramps, little things that would give you back your independence. Yes, you would learn how to cope, you might even thrive, but that wouldn't be enough. You know what the worst thing is, don't you Pietro?"
The boy shook his head, his eyes transfixed on the Professor, then, like the proverbial flash of lightning, he understood.
"The worst thing," Pietro replied in a soft monotone, as if speaking in his sleep, "is how others treat you, the looks of pity, of sadness, like you don't have any dignity or something. Like you can't do anything any more."
"Exactly," said Charles. "And that is something you would have a hard time coping with, Pietro. You are still too proud, too confident in your abilities, you are an extrovert, you never look inwards, never consider. You would learn to hate everyone around you, you would become bitter, and shrivel away, I think."
"So… so what do you want me to do?" wailed Pietro, his voice high and tense. "Please… I can't do this!
When will you give me back my legs, I said I was sorry, I can't-"
He fell silent as Xavier put up a hand. "Pietro, there is no need for this, your legs are yours again, I reset your mental functions when you asked. I was merely theorizing with you."
Pietro paused for a second, then, shifting in his seat, he tried to move his legs. They worked. He leaped to his feet, jogging up and down on the spot, tears of joy dripping down his pale cheeks.
Xavier watched him. "Well," he said. "What do you say, Pietro?"
"Uh… thanks," muttered the speedster carefully.
"A pleasure, I'm sorry for having to inflict that on you, but I felt a lesson was in order. If it helps, it hurt me as much as it did you."
Something in the tone of his voice made Pietro suddenly sure of his sincerity.
"I… I'm sorry," he found himself saying.
Xavier frowned. "You've already said that," he remarked.
"Yeah but… but this time I mean it… really mean it. I… I shouldn't have… you know... I treated you bad and I underestimated you, and I… well… I'm sorry."
"Thank you, Pietro, that means more to me than you shall ever know. If you, or any of the Brotherhood ever want more help then I'm here, if you have the courage to come."
Pietro looked at Xavier oddly, and gave a curt nod before taking his leave. Blob met him just outside the doorway, and the two were hastily escorted out of the grounds, with much relief to all parties concerned.
Once again Xavier was alone, or as alone as he ever could be. He rubbed his temples, trying to suppressthe voices, trying to find his centre again. He hated acting so cold, hated causing others pain, hated hiding it all inside. But it was necessary; it had to be done, if only so that he could survive day to day. Had to be done to stop him going slowly insane.
He allowed his hand to touch his swollen eye and lip, savouring the resultant burst of pain. When he'd been younger there had been a brief phase where he had committed acts of self-harm to distract himself from the mental screams he had felt around him. That period was long over, but pain, for all its inconveniences, still served as a sort of telepathic barrier, and he would take physical anguish over mental any day.
He sighed, he had jobs to do, things to keep himself occupied, and there was no need to dwell on the more unpleasant aspects of his life.
Still, when he heard a cry from outside, the sound of Kitty mock-scolding Kurt for his flirtations, he could not help but feel a stab of jealousy. What would it be like, he wondered, to be able to run again, to be able to do what one wanted without feeling the resultant emotions of others, to have blessed silence in his head once again…
He shook his head; he doubted he would ever know.
THE END
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